The Breach
by Shoedonym
Summary: It was something she hadn't seen coming. She didn't know what to do. Well, that wasn't strictly true - she knew what she wanted to do, and what she should do. It was just that one of those options would definitely get her fired. She hesitated, grasping her phone tighter for fear her shaking would drop it, and eventually called the one person she knew could help. CS teachers au
1. Adrasteia - Inescapable

A/N: Hi friends! Dipping my toe into the cs fanfiction world because everyone else in it is so amazing with their words that I'm flailing around like a fish out of water. All that flailing made me want to join in.

I welcome reviews and criticisms with open arms.

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_The Breach – 1/?_

_1. Adrasteia- inescapable_

_._

If Killian was being honest, the only good thing about staff meetings was the free food. It had been seven years of teaching, and three different schools and still he was yet to find an enjoyable experience anywhere in the whole thing. Well, that was until he came to Storybrooke High School and discovered the ridiculous sweet potato puffs. Killian particularly enjoyed it when it was the Math department's turn to provide because Rem made the most amazing sweet potato curried puffs. He stole four of them before sitting down and making apologetic glances at other staff members who tried to start a conversation with him, smiling as they acknowledged that his mouth was full of food.

Not that they should be surprised - he was practically famous in his admiration for them. Last year his 'birthday cake' at work had been larger, spanakopita sized versions, with candles stuck in them. Rem had presented them on a tiered cake stand and had given Killian a confused yet humbled pat on the back.

The meetings themselves were just an endless stream of reminders about fundraising events and updates and dramas - all of which could have been found on the online staff dashboard anyway. The only part that Killian ever bothered tuning into was the welfare discussions at the end of each meetings – which kids to look out for, home situations, and truancy risks.

Nothing new in that area this week, though.

He tore the corner off another puff.

He tried to listen, honestly he did, but Robert Gold, the principal, tended to prattle on. Killian didn't really get along with him on a personal level, but he did keep things ship shape. However, he'd been droning on for well over half an hour and Killian was definitely zoning out, eating his puffs at a snail's pace to make them last.

"…and lastly, we have a new school counsellor who will be replacing Karen Zhang while she is on maternity leave on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Emma Swan," out of the corner of his eye, Killian saw him gesture to a golden-haired shape to his left "we'll be sharing her with the middle school on the other days, but please, make sure she feels welcome."

Killian finished licking his fingers free from pastry crumbs to look at the new member of staff.

She was all blonde hair, cheekbones and a sensible shirt.

A pull heralded from his insides instantly - and it wasn't just for another sweet potato puff.

...

The next time he saw her he was reprimanding a sophomore for being disruptive in class. The kid had been trying to speak over him for the entire hour of class time and he'd sincerely had enough.

"But, Sir, it's not like history is even useful. Who cares about what some dead guy did a thousand years ago?"

"There is no point trying to sass me, Cameron. I know you know this, because I've told you a dozen times. History teaches us how to think, not what to think."

The kid just stood there looking incredibly sour.

"Not going to apologise?" Killian's question was met with silence, the shuffling of feet, and avoided glances. Sighing, Killian gave him detention for the next afternoon.

She had walked past him at that moment, smiling briefly at both Cameron and Killian, before glancing around the corridor franticly. Cameron shuffled off down the corridor, swearing under his breath and Killian hoped his recent disruptiveness was just a phase. Or at least related to some teenage crush – at least then there was the possibility his attitude would change.

"Hang on, sorry, do you know where room 107 is?" Killian turned to find Emma lightly jogging back up the corridor and looking straight at him.

"It's down by the senior study rooms, other side of the courtyard. Not near here at all."

"Oh, hell, that's right!" She started darting off again.

"Hang on, love –"

"Nope, sorry, can't – later!" waving over her shoulder she disappeared round the corner of the hall, heels clacking urgently.

...

His next encounter was equally as hurried.

He was in the front office, mid-discussion with Janet, the woman who organised the school newsletters, about the upcoming history excursion - when she appeared suddenly beside them.

"Is anyone else having trouble with their phone? I can't get a line out."

Some of the ladies in the office peered over their cubicles, while others grappled for their phone.

"No, it is working, but three of the lines are busy."

"Damn, damn, damn – Ruby, can I use your phone?"

"Of course!"

It had all happened so quickly that Killian hadn't had time to really get her attention, nor did he think it was appropriate really. So he hung around, asking the other ladies about their weeks and making general chit-chat. He didn't know why he wanted to speak to her quite so badly – it was his only free period of the day and he still had a lesson plan to prepare for tomorrow – but he did. Perhaps it was curiosity about the beast that had stirred within him when he'd first seen her.

She, however, did not hang around. After she had finished speaking desperately on the phone to a Mr White she ran straight out with a "thank you again, ladies" and a polite smile in Killian's direction before disappearing around yet another corner.

"That Emma is such a lovely young thing," piped up Liz from behind her cubicle.

The other ladies all agreed in unison.

"Pretty," stated Janet, looking poignantly at Killian.

"I believe that's my cue. Bye, ladies. Call me down tomorrow when you've got cake," wiggling his eyebrows, he sauntered out of the room.

...

It wasn't that he never saw her around. Every second day he would see her running about the office building or shuffling frazzled children and parents into her office. Occasionally, he saw her eating lunch with Mary Margaret – one of the English teachers – but always when he was rushed off his feet.

It wasn't, however, until a Wednesday three weeks later that Killian finally got her in a position for conversation.

...

For some reason, Killian's favourite class to teach was 9th grade. 9th graders were universally the most hated year – most teachers seemed to agree on that one point. They were emotionally all over the place, and just beginning to get that cocky teenage vibe that meant they thought they could get away with anything – which unfortunately often meant their homework.

However, Killian found that the US system meant that many of the kids still had that frightened 'oh my God I'm in high school' kind of look on their faces – that fear that they could get into trouble. They were still malleable little minds, in some sense.

"Sir, I've got a question?"

Killian had the class working in groups to fill out some worksheets on Perikles and classical Athens when the slightly shaky voice came from the back corner. Henry Mills, the mayor's son, was a gentle boy who rarely spoke at all in class – his grades weren't stellar, but strong – but there was something slightly wounded about him. He was definitely a student that Killian kept an eye out for. Especially, as this was a group task and he had blatantly ignored his peers to work by himself.

When he made his way over, telling a few other kids on his way to settle down, he noticed a bunch of pages hidden (not very subtly mind you) underneath the worksheet, covered in illustrations and drawings.

"I don't understand where to look for the answer to number 9."

Grabbing the sheet with the extracts on it from his table, Killian turned to the right page before giving the sheet back to him

"Try Thucydides, lad."

A knock at the classroom door got his attention. He called them to come in before he'd noticed who it was.

"I need to speak to Henry Mills, Mr Jones. He needs to bring his things."

Killian glanced at Emma Swan as she hovered awkwardly by the door to the classroom. Her loitering amused him – she had spoken the words with surety but clearly did not feel comfortable interrupting the class. He absentmindedly wondered how long she'd been working in schools.

Quickly nodding at Henry to give him the okay, he walked over to – finally – introduce himself to the new counsellor.

"So you know who I am, but you haven't even told me your name?" It came out flirtier than he had intended but her use of his name when they'd never really spoken had encouraged it out of him. Though, he knew that to find out where Henry was, she'd have seen who was teaching the class.

"You know who I am," she smiled an impatient sort of glare, but all Killian could see in that smile was a mixture of politeness and- hang on was there a hint of playfulness there somewhere?

"Killian Jones."

"Emma Swan," she accepted his extended hand and shook it firmly, trying not to look directly at him and instead she watched for Henry's movements to hurry him along.

"History teacher," he grinned lopsidedly, thankful that his class was busy chatting amongst themselves and (he hoped optimistically) actually doing their work.

"So I see," she nodded at the whiteboard behind him where the words 'Perikles + Aspasia' were written in large letters, various styles of Greek columns and love hearts drawn around it.

He chuckled a bit, "Aye, appealing to their inner teenage romantics," she scoffed at that. He decided he liked the sound – midway between a chuckle and indignation – it suited the woman he knew nothing about. "Doesn't appeal to yours?"

"My what?"

"Sense of romanticism," he dropped his voice a little lower to add a little drama to his words, "A man who treated and loved a women against social convention? A man who thought the good of his state was above personal interests? A woman who knew her own mind and gave it often?"

"Sounds a bit fanciful to me, and besides who cares what some dead people did a thousand years ago?" she was paraphrasing Cameron from the other week. Yes, definitely playful. She stopped avoiding eye contact with him and locked onto him briefly with greying green eyes. It was a steely look, but largely all he saw in it was curiosity. As brief as the moment was (or was it longer?) it was enough to encourage that beast of his to claw at him and send warmth flooding to his cheeks.

Henry stepped between them.

"Hey, kid," Emma greeted Henry with a sympathetic smile and stepped out of the doorway to lead him into the corridor, before speaking at a softer volume, "Your Mom's here."

Killian was leaning on the outside edge of the door now, and he could clearly see how Henry's face fell instantly. Henry groaned, before walking very slowly down the hallway.

"Thank you, Mr Jones," Emma said, voice diverting back to its original polite business level.

"It's Killian," smirking a little, for the hell of it.

"Bye, Mr Jones," she called over her shoulder one last time and Killian could have sworn he saw a little grin before she disappeared.

"You have 10 minutes left," Killian told his class, closing the door after him and walking back over to the white board to draw another Ionic column.

"Sir, who was that?"

"That, Ella, would be your new counsellor – Ms Swan," he grabbed a green marker and began scrawling.

"Sir, do you have a crush on Ms Swan."

"9 minutes, you have 9 minutes left to finish the worksheet."


	2. Tyche - Luck

**_A/N:_ **You guys are such _absolute_ cuties, thank you for such a lovely response to the first chapter! I definitely did not tear up at some of your comments, nope definitely not. The good news is I've got bits and pieces of various chapters written already. The bad news is my masters thesis is due in three weeks so I won't have much time until that's done so I don't know when I'll next be able to update. Hope this tides you over! I tend to be better at updating on tumblr though (as is evidenced by this chapter being up there a few days ago oops) so if you want to follow the story there you can. My url is also shoedonym :)

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_The Breach_

_2. Tyche - luck_

_._

Checking her watch Emma decided that five more minutes and she'd definitely get back to her work.

She'd been trying to do just that for the last twenty minutes, but she was sure that in five minutes time she'd be ready.

Emma collapsed her head into the nook of her elbow, arms crossed upon her desk, and shut her eyes.

There were some days that Emma loved her new job. Days where the biggest problems she had to deal with were disinterested children skipping classes. She'd only been living the counselling life for - what was it, five weeks? Five years ago she had been a bail bondsperson and while she had decided to move on from it, it had also been a satisfying career move. She had loved chasing down creeps and fools, and being paid reasonably to do so. She was not blind though – she knew the whole exercise had been somewhat self-serving. Bail bondsing had scattered some earth in a certain emotional trench.

But that was a whole other story.

The bail bonds exercise had left her rather isolated from other people, and she did regret that. It had been a deliberate choice that she hadn't necessarily intended to change, but there was some regret there. She was nearly twenty-nine and while she had no illusions about settling down and having a family, a case had persuaded her that she could live a different kind of life. The case had brought her to the small town of_- _nope the name was lost_. _It was somewhere. Somewhere where a small child, eleven years of age, had been caught up in the mess of her father and was expected to carry on with her life without the rest of her family as though a good night's sleep could erase the past.

Emma knew better than anyone that that would never work.

The case had only taken her three days but the impact it had on her had prompted her to go to college, attain a psychology degree and all the qualifications attached to it.

Here she was. A counsellor.

Some days she loved it. Other days, like today, she just needed the week to end.

She had had three crying, traumatised teenage girls in earlier after a rather out of control party from the weekend. It had lead to a lot of alcohol, a lot of boys, and a lot of conflict.

Her mind was numb, her heart ached, and her ears throbbed with the shrill shrieking of teenage girls. The high pitch of their voices had been irritating, but there was still an uncomfortable clench in her heart for the girls and their behaviour. She made a mental note to bring them in again next week to check on them.

"Good afternoon staff," - Emma started slightly at the page that came across the phone speaker - "Just a reminder that the senior versus staff soccer game will be played on the oval at lunch time today. Please, come along and cheer us on. Some of us may have accidentally bet money on this thing and could use all the encouragement we can get."

One of the few things that Emma hadn't been prepared for with this new job was the feeling that she was now a part of a community. Sure, it had been something she was aware of, but being aware of it and coping with the reality of it were very separate things. Childhood trauma and dealing with difficult children was not foreign to Emma, but being part of something? Well, that was taking some getting used to.

She sat up, groaning and whining a bit in an attempt at waking herself up, opened her top left draw and snatched a sachet of instant chocolate powder.

She was clearly not going to get much done this afternoon though. It took her ten minutes to drag her way to the staff kitchen upstairs, and then she spent another five minutes trying to choose a mug. After deciding that next week she would bring in her own mug, she settled on a particularly large one with blue illustrations of boats and terraces.

She nearly dropped the damn thing when a husky voice spoke right behind her.

"Thief."

Spinning around, she nearly knocked him with the mug he was standing so close.

"Huh?"

His only reply was the absurd raise of his left eyebrow before glancing down at the mug she had clutched.

"Oh, sorry, here – you can have it –"

"Wouldn't dream of it, love. Honestly, I'll grab another."

He leant over her shoulder, intentionally occupying her space within the small galley kitchen, and Emma simpered – this Killian Jones was shameless.

She didn't know quite what to make of him.

After meeting him in his classroom two weeks ago he had grinned at her whenever he'd seen her. And he'd grinned often. Emma used the word grin because that's precisely what it was – a cheerful smirk that danced on the border of impropriety. It was never an innocent grin. He seemed pleasant enough, but there was this cavalier happy-go-lucky-scamp nature about him that in combination with his flirty smirks was a little disarming. Emma had absolutely no intentions of encouraging the grinning. At first, she had returned them with a polite smile hoping that it would seem as though she was simply trying to fit into the place.

She gave that up quickly though.

Now she rolled her eyes at him. It was the only sensible response. She had never really discouraged his silly smiles. Nothing beyond a _really? _kind of message. She wasn't really sure why. She'd never stopped to think about it.

Of course, the whole dark, scruffy, English thing he had going for him was attractive, but Emma had learnt years ago that good looks and banter did not a good man make.

He grabbed a polka dotted mug, before moving away to grab a tea bag. She observed him for a moment. Watched as he pressed the hot water tap until the water had almost reached the brim, watched as he bent a little to smell the tea, and watched as an expression of what can only be described as disgruntled resignation flickered across his otherwise handsome face.

Who could blame him – the tea at work was terrible.

"So, tell me Miss Swan, how are you settling in?"

"Yeah, well, thanks. It's taking a while to get some of the kids to open up to me, but I expected that. Others never seem to stop talking. There are those around the school who just stare at me from a distance, and that's just the history staff."

He grinned at her – again - and Emma had to bite the inside of the cheek to rein in her own. Emma, if you asked her about it, would refuse to admit that she was flirting with him. In her mind she had simply been trying to alert him to his grins and his glances.

Emma was only half right.

"Am I to assume you're coming along to the football match? The soccer game, I mean. I must admit – I'm a little disappointed you're not playing. Bad form."

"I am planning on watching, there's a lot of work I need to do for next week, but I wouldn't miss the opportunity to see the students thrash you."

"Let's hope so – they're a little too young to suffer blows to their egos. Besides, I'll need you there to be my good luck charm."

"What, like I give you a favour and you wear it while charging into battle like some medieval knight?"

"Ah, so you do have a sense of romanticism? Note to self: the Greeks do not interest Miss Swan, but the romanticism of the Middle Ages? As you wish, milady," swaying towards her as he dunked his teabag a few more times and throwing it in the bin under the counter beside them, Killian invading her space once more with a smirk.

"You are such a shameless flirt," she shot him her best 'I'm tired of your bullshit this is hardly the time or the place and I'm so not in the mood' glare.

It didn't work. If anything the angle of his lips grew. His body was still uncomfortably close to her own, and he reached behind her again to grab something off the tea shelf.

"Can't feel shame for something I don't regret, love. But you're so cautious, Emma. Never mind, I'm sure we'll spar again soon," before she could register, he was shoving something into her hand and turning away from her. "Now, enjoy your hot chocolate, Swan. See you at the match."

Emma looked down to see that a small jar of cinnamon sugar had been thrust into her hand. She was weirdly touched by the sentiment. How had he guessed she had wanted it? She put the cinnamon back on the shelf without using it, and took her chocolate back to her office.

She instantly regretting her stubbornness in going without.

It took her an hour to shake the feeling of irritability from her fingers.

...

The teachers were down by three goals, three of the players' faces were covered in mud, and Emma was loving every minute of it.

The hill on the side of the school oval was crowded with children of all ages, and teachers from all departments. The shouts and cheers from the students were getting arrogant, and the desperate noises from the members of staff were making Emma chuckle contentedly.

She was standing by the side line with Mary Margaret. The two women had met on Emma's first day as Mary Margaret had been keen to talk to her about Henry Mills. She was a gentle sort of woman, with a pixie hair cut and fierce eyes who had taken a particular shine to the boy's creative writing skills and in doing so seemed to have opened herself up to the boy's welfare issues. Mary Margaret was married to David Nolan, the fair-haired, well built, head of physical education and sport. Under normal circumstances David was a light-hearted guy who consistently gave off a fatherly kind of vibe.

However, today he was staff captain and was running about the field shouting hysterically at his team mates and arguing with Marco the ref. If Emma was being honest with herself, she was largely laughing at how heartbroken David seemed at being beaten by a bunch of teenagers.

"Tink, what was that?! You're flying around the place and achieving nothing," shouted David, attempting to drill some tough love into the chemistry teacher. Well, Emma knew it was tough love – she just wasn't sure David knew it, as the man had seemed to take the whole thing rather personally.

"Where's your gumption, Dave? What is it you're always saying? 'There's hope yet'," Killian shouted back at him.

"Shut up, brit."

Tink brushed off the aggression easily and laughed heartily while Killian patted her on the back before turning once more to look at Emma. He had been doing it all match, and his position on the field brought him annoyingly close to her. He was striker – at least that's what Emma thought, soccer had never really been her thing – but as they were losing quite a lot he seemed to spend most of the match running up and down the side line, metres from where Emma stood.

Not that she bothered to move.

Another raucous cheer and stampede of feet, somewhat muffled by the grass, erupted as the seniors scored another goal.

12 – 8

"Oi Mr Nolan, do you want a few pointers?"

Ah the heckling. Emma liked the heckling too.

"You didn't bring much luck with you, love," of course, trudging back up the field, while his team mates attempted to come back from their shame, he had loitered to flirt with her.

"I never promised I would," she was desperately trying to downplay whatever this might look like because Mary Margaret was side eyeing the two of them.

"Perhaps it's because you never offered me a favour. Not too late to rectify you know. That red scarf around your neck would do."

The physical exercise, though it had not dampened his mischievous nature, had somewhat exhausted the smirk from his face into a more natural smile. Although, it may have had something to do with being in front of all the students. She had noticed that in front of them he had always worn a far more… open expression.

Emma decided she didn't like it – it suited him far too well.

"Get your own, Jones, I need this for warmth."

It was barely a cold day.

He trotted backwards down the field and gave her a silly little bow.

"I see you've made a friend," Mary Margaret piped up beside her, a mischievous tone of her own betraying the serious look on her face.

"Maybe. I'm not sure what he thinks he's doing though."

"Oh, I think Killian knows exactly what he's doing."

Emma turned to look at Mary Margaret, a confused look on her own face. Mary Margaret looked away slowly, a knowing and almost disapproving look settling upon it as she followed the game again. Emma couldn't decide if perhaps Mary Margaret had been casting aspersions upon Killian's motives, or Emma's.

Emma decided she didn't want to know, and promptly turned back to follow the bounce of the ball.

She barely saw it happen. One of the strikers whom Emma noticed as having scored two of the previous goals, and whose ego had grown a little with the chanting crowd, had been a little too eager to score again and had slipped in the mud. Which in itself should not have been cause for alarm, but the loud cracking sound of bone that echoed across the field was.

Out of pure instinct Emma ran onto the field with a handful of other teachers while everyone rushed over to the boy. He had landed on his elbow at a funny angle and the whole thing appeared disconnected, or at least a mess. David met Ruby, one of the office ladies, half way on the field before collecting the first aid kit and racing back to the boy, who, to his credit, had not panicked or starting whimpering but merely wore a bewildered look on his face.

"Bae, Bae, are you okay? How much pain are you in?" It was Killian. He began flurrying about the boy as David dug through the first aid kit and attempted to determine what exactly the damage was.

"Um, it hurts," the boy stuttered a bit clearly biting back the pain now as the realisation of what was happening dawned on him. He kept glancing dazedly between Killian and David as though waiting for the worst.

"Easy, son," David began, "I think you've just dislocated it, but I'd rather not attempt to move it."

Emma didn't quite know what to do. One of the other girls from the team was holding the ball, and sitting down beside Bae, grabbed his uninjured hand. The others milled about not knowing what to do, all wearing concerned looks on their faces. The children on the hill had started talking amongst themselves, the bell indicating the end of lunch was minutes away, and the sense of curiosity and interest in the matter was waning.

"Someone get Robert out of his meeting, his son's been injured," Killian had said it without looking at anyone and when nobody moved, the woman who Emma vaguely recognised as the librarian trotted up the hill and towards his office.

Hating that she felt useless as everything else had been covered by all the teachers fussing about, she remembered the pile of water bottles that had been lying over where she and Mary Margaret had been standing previously. Quickly, she jogged over and fortunately found a large white bottle with the word BAE written across it. She picked it up, and made her way back, crouching down before offering it to Bae with an apologetic smile.

"Here, kid, some water will help you feel better."

"Thanks, Miss."

Without realising, she had bent down right next to Killian. He turned to her with a look on his face that she had no idea how to read. She returned the look with a sad smile.

"Perhaps, I'm worse luck than we thought."


	3. Bia - Raw Force, Energy

**A/N:** So I confused a bunch of people with the Bae thing. Bae's role in Killian's turn around was always far too important to me there was no way I couldn't include it. That being said, don't assume Neal doesn't exist because this is an au and therefore I can call shotgun on poetic license.

You're all precious for your comments and patience I love you a bunch. _A bunch. _A bunch.

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_**3. Bia – raw force, energy**_

Killian was so tired – gods was he tired. Of course, the dreadful stillness in the room didn't help.

He shuffled in his chair a little, scratching his somewhat scrappy beard, and glanced around the room. In front of him, nine girls frantically wrote on booklets of paper, frowning angrily at the work in front of them. They had been sitting there for an hour already, the sound of flipping only intermittently overpowering the sound of the clock and the subtle patter of rain outside. Killian hated invigilating. He was a patient man – but he was not a still man. While he may appear restrained, careful and gentle in his movements, he was overwhelmingly controlled by a need to move. This need to move didn't need to be physical, but right now, after an hour of doing naught all, moving was what he needed most.

The restlessness was also largely in part due to the sleepless fortnight he had had. He didn't want to think about what had prompted it (didn't want to picture the boy in the back of the ambulance – perfectly fine mind, but the image was enough to haunt him).

He swallowed back the thought, allowed a yawn to creep through and glanced at the clock.

Still an hour left to go of this blasted Latin exam.

Outside the window he noticed three figures in the courtyard: the ever elusive Miss Swan, Henry Mills, and his mother Regina. Emma was walking – stalking more like – away from the other two with an expression that he was glad wasn't directed at him. He took note as she made it under an awning and threw her red umbrella about with such jerky movements that he was surprised the whole thing didn't just start flinging pieces of metal in all directions.

That wretched beast in his stomach stretched its claws.

Killian wasn't really sure what it was about the woman that piqued his interest quite so much. There was a stark contrast between the aggravated woman he could see now and the softness that underlay her actions. Those actions of empathy towards the students, the softness that underlay the way she avoided others – a confronting effect, but her softness shone through nonetheless.

He wondered, as he stifled back another yawn, whether or not Emma knew her walls weren't fooling anyone.

Well, at least, they weren't fooling him.

Two hours and two coffees later he popped by her office and noticing the door ajar, waltzed inside.

"Need something?"

The woman in question followed him into the room by about thirty seconds, and it took Killian less than that to figure out that she was still in the poor mood he'd witnessed earlier. Her hair, somewhat dampened (maybe she did break her umbrella after all), only added to the dishevelled look on her face. If Killian didn't love a challenge he would have back out right then and there.

Slapping a pile of papers down on her desk, she circled around it and then proceeded to slump herself into her chair and as it twirled, it gave a little squeak. Without looking at him, she starting clicking around impatiently on her computer.

He watched her closely, could see the fumes rolling off her, and yet what stood out most was her determination not to look at him.

"Emma, you've got a parent here to see you? Mr Jeong?"

The voice startled him, he had been so focused on watching Emma that he hadn't noticed Ruby pop her head round the corner. As Emma replied, telling her that she would be round in a second to see him, Killian was surprised a how oblivious Ruby was to the clear stress ball of a woman in front of them tensing with every breath.

As Ruby left, Emma sighed loudly and got out of her seat again, rushing over towards somewhere behind Killian, grabbing a bunch of files before making her way to the door again. She stopped, turned, and facing him, leant against the door frame.

"What?"

It'd barely even registered to him that he had still yet to say anything, so loud were his thoughts, and to be honest, his exhaustion was delaying his response to the world. Seeing her now with hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, the other clinging desperately to a file, he felt a renewed sense of purpose being in her office. Strolling the distance between them he watched as she kept his gaze before he stopped less than a metre in front of her.

"Swanning off again, are we?"

She crossed her arms over the folder and a pained sigh escaped her.

"Was that a pun?"

His face burst into a smile at the look on her face – the look of a person fighting the fine line between the pleasure and pain of puns. He was particularly proud of that one.

"Not a fan of puns?" The pun-induced pain on her face was far preferable to whatever tension it had been concentrating on before and that was victory enough for him.

Then they went back to not speaking. There was a strange energy in the room, one that Killian couldn't place. He didn't like it though. It felt off to him. Though she made no move to indicate any impatience with his silence.

And so they stood in the doorframe - a little longer than was probably necessary - each reading the other through the strange force that bounced around them like a radio frequency.

"What are you doing on Friday?"

She hadn't been expecting that. Not even a little if the panicked look in her eyes was anything to go by. There was a little disappointment in his gut at her discomfort and shock but he tried to take it in his stride. He had intentionally phrased it that way to get a reaction out of her and in an unconscious habit his eyebrow skyrocketed up his brow.

She chose to play it coyly.

"Well, I'll be waking up, driving my beat up old car, and coming to work where I will sit right here and provide some kids with what I hope will be useful advice. Actually, that is what I should be doing right now, so if you'll excuse me, I've got a parent to -"

"Every Friday, we go for after work drinks, and _you _Miss Swan, have never been. Care to explain your actions?" The relief rolled off her in waves (he tried to take it in his stride) as she reshuffled the file in her arms. "I know you know, I've overheard the other office ladies asking you several times."

Reflexively, his right hand moved behind his ear to touch the raised part behind his ear in an uneasy irritation. He watched as she eyed the movement only drawing more attention to how self aware he was.

"Yes, I know about work drinks."

"So that's a yes then," he knew it wasn't, but he decided to pounce on the opportunity anyway. A sway of his body towards hers, and a jovial grin, elicited another grimacing smile from her.

"Not what I said," but she hadn't backed away from him. With every inch he invaded her space she only ever stood supremely still – right up until the moment that she fled.

They had been playing this game for weeks. In the staff room, in the kitchen, in the hallways, in the playground - it was a dance he knew well. What he was new to was this weird tension. He didn't like whatever it was. Killian was (almost painfully) aware of the chemistry and the attraction between the two of them, but this new energy was some sort of warning signal emanating from her.

This morning, challenging each other from the doorway of her office, she lingered a little longer than Killian expected her to. He couldn't have blinked had he wanted to, the greying green of her own eyes literally ensnaring him and so he channelled all his honestly (about what he wasn't quite sure, but somehow knew she needed to see it anyway) into the unspoken conversation they were having.

He didn't know what she was looking for, nor what he was showing her – but in true Emma Swan fashion, she turned and without a word or a second glance, walked down the corridor.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

He pestered her about it on Wednesday. This time he was on playground duty, standing under an old tree and absentmindedly watching some of the kids play handball when she came up to stand next to him.

She had brought the weird energy with her again.

He had no idea where it had come from. It had definitely not always been there - not in this way. Before she had taken his flirtations with good natured frustration with a serve of her own banter, but now there was this, this – _thing_ that she seemed to carry with her even when they were just standing under a sycamore tree not saying anything.

_Especially_ when they were just standing under a sycamore tree not saying anything.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Ahuh?"

"Who is Bae Gold's mother?"

His heart did an unsteady staccato.

"After some inter-office gossip are you, Swan? It's not the librarian Belle he seems to visit every few hours if that's what you're wondering."

The raise of his eyebrows was returned with a raise of her own - but her smile was not like the one of playfulness he wore (read: deflection), rather one of concern.

Sighing, he scratched behind his ear before glancing at the boy in question, sitting with a group some distance away.

"She died before I arrived in Storybrooke. Word on the street is she was an alcoholic – practically threw up her own organs. Apparently," Killian tried as hard as he could to not to spit the words as he delivered them.

She hummed a little in response before facing Killian and watching his expression. He found himself all too aware of his breathing and the great discomfort he felt by her unknowing interrogation. Determined to get rid of the feeling, he met her head on.

"So, about Friday…"

"And we're back to our regularly scheduled flirting," and Emma was back to her irritable tone.

"I have done no such thing, Swan. I am simply one colleague, asking another colleague to join multiple colleagues in some post-work socialising."

"Sure. You can stick with that story if you like. Don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second," and with that, Emma left his side and headed back across the courtyard, her blonde tresses contrasting vibrantly with the dark blue of her blouse.

"I would despair if you did."

She didn't turn around to look at him, but the bounce of her hair from side to side told him she was shaking her head in response.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Storybrooke was surprisingly limited in its choice for drinks. Despite being your typical quaint country town, there were a lot of people milling about at any given time – however apparently the citizens of said township were not overly keen in investing in more than a handful of bars. Hence, the limited options. Unless you were one of the more disreputable members of the sleepy town - in which case there were plenty. The Rabbit Hole was fine if you were after a dark night out where the floor stuck to your feet, but for a group of vastly different individuals such as a group of teachers, Granny's was pretty much the default.

So it was the default every Friday afternoon. They would abandon their marking to be groaned at the following day, they would shake off the last few hours of stress and share in the camaraderie. Killian, not really one for sentiment, would never admit how much he liked it. There was something about it though, something about a group of often completely miss-matched people thrown together and forced into cooperation. The only way he could think to describe it was as though they were a ship's crew – fighting, scrapping, drinking, but ultimately building and working towards a common goal. It was a tacky, clichéd way of putting it, but that was what he saw.

So on Friday afternoon, Killian walked from the school grounds to Granny's with a handful of other staff members, chatting exhaustedly about their day. He was all too aware that she hadn't come (he was taking it in his stride) – he just couldn't quite figure out why. He knew for a fact that Emma liked most of the people that had come along. She was friends with Mary Margaret, with Ruby, with David, with the lot of them, so it wasn't that she didn't like the company.

"You seem distracted," David, walking hand-in-hand with his wife asked quietly beside him.

"Not distracted, just, exhausted, mate," a lie.

Well, a half lie. His last period class had decided that the words "work quietly you lot" meant absolutely nothing.

Arriving and deciding to sit outside in the warm afternoon sun (even though they sat in the same place every week), the twelve of them pulled together enough chairs and tables to accommodate them all while David and Killian went inside for the order they knew off by heart.

David, less occupied with his own thoughts, recited the various drinks before smiling charmingly at the owner who mirrored his smile with genuine affection, even if it did come across somewhat gruffly.

"Alright, what is with you, you've barely spoken all the way here. Usually, you waste no time in telling me about the most annoying incident of the day. You can't tell me you had an incident free day because I was next door to you last period, and I could hear you yelling."

Looking at the fair-haired man beside him, Killian wondered whether or not to include him in his ponderings. Before it struck him that he didn't really know what he'd be confiding in exactly.

_'There's a woman who is an enigma I would like to crack, and she's 50% cheekbones 50% walls, tell me how should I proceed?'_

No, that would be absurd.

"Honestly, Dave, I just can't seem to get out of my own head today, it's not a big deal. I'll get some drinks in me and you can start arguing about the baseball."

David chuckled and clapped the man on the back as he then leapt into a story about a kid in one of his classes who he thought should be playing baseball professionally.

A few moments later, and after placing all the drinks on trays, David and Killian headed back outside - but not before a certain blonde counsellor appeared before them in the doorway. She smiled warmly at David, and sent a begrudging look Killian's way. Why did he get the feeling that look told him that she blamed him entirely for her presence here?

"Just going to get myself a drink and I'll join you."

As luck would have it there were three seats directly next to each other, and as David and Killian took two of them, Killian patiently waited for Emma to return so that she could steal the seat at one head of the long line of tables - the seat diagonally next to himself.

He didn't have to wait long. Though she smiled politely at him this time, she sipped her tall glass of cider quietly and tuned herself into the conversations going on around her rather than engage with him. Mary Margaret and David were talking about the on going feud between their fire alarm and their toaster, Janet was asking Tink about her latest cooking venture - still Emma seemed content to just listen and yet to Killian she appeared to be visibly uncomfortable.

Suddenly it struck him.

"This is all new to you, isn't it?" leaning over the table between them a little and whispering, paying attention to her response.

She crinkled her eyebrows together in question. So he unhanded his smallish stein and gestured subtly to the group of people around them.

She played dumb again.

"Of course I haven't, you pointed that out a few days ago."

Killian huffed a little before angling himself more towards her, sheltering their conversation from David and Mary Margaret.

"You know what I mean. _This. _The people thing," he was probably going to pay for what he was about to say. "You have that look in your eyes – the one you get when you've been left alone. You look uneasy with the notion of belonging."

If she had been shocked by anything he'd ever said to her before you'd never know it. So stark was the difference between those looks and this one – Emma was floored. It didn't take long however for her to rebuild a little and Killian was once more met with silence. Then after a few short moments, he felt it again, that raw energy and suddenly he understood what it was: it was her distress. It was as though every pulsating ache within her bounced along a frequency that resonated within himself. She was afraid to reveal herself, but it was more than that – it was an anxious response to the world around her. As though through sheer force of will she could push away others and things.

Her mouth slightly agape, and her eyes glued to his, she stopped playing dumb long enough to respond.

"How would you know that?" He had expected her to avoid the question altogether, expected her to rebuff him with her own enquiry, but she was genuinely curious this time. Genuinely wondering how the man sitting across from her could sense her discomfort so easily.

"Perhaps it's obvious. Perhaps I'm just very good at reading people."

She drank slowly, and looked towards Mary Margaret on her right ignoring him again, before attempting to silence him on the matter.

"Perhaps."

A long sip from his own beer helped him steal some courage for the clear attack on her boundaries he was about to engage in.

"What are you so afraid of, love?"

"Don't be ridiculous, it's just drinks with people I see almost everyday," her voice was dry, and distant, and yet she was being patient with him (letting him wonder while at the same time giving nothing away).

He hated this game (but he thrived off it – off interacting with her).

"So you say, but that doesn't render my original question null nor void. If anything that makes it all the more relevant. Why are you so afraid of this?"

He knew her composure in not telling him off had largely to do with being surrounding by their workmates, and had it been the two of them she would have walked away already. Killian was taking full advantage of that fact. She couldn't just get up and walk away, drink half full (or half empty, depending on whether you were asking him or her) and leave.

"Okay," she said it slowly, a warning in her eyes, her voice pleasant and quiet enough to not draw any attention to them while the others were all busy in their own moments. "Fine. I've never really stayed anywhere long enough to do this – _this _– community thing, okay? I'm not _afraid, _I'm just in unfamiliar territory. Nothing I can't handle, Jones."

That vibrating feeling that she was emitting almost made him sick and he was suddenly a) very, _very, _curious about her now, and b) mad at whoever it was that had done this to her, whether that was herself or someone else.

"Sorry, love," he whispered it back at her, fingers playing with the condensation on his glass, eyes never leaving hers.

"Don't be, Jones, I'm a big girl - I can handle work drinks."

"Not for that thing. The other thing."

At this stage their eyes were saying far more than they had before, and far more than their words. She was steeling herself and yet there was a gentle glimmer in the depths there of an emotion Killian wanted to call appreciation. Empathy? What for, he wasn't sure. Surely not his apology, she seemed to know that he wasn't pitying her – could see it clear as day in his eyes as he silently told her that he knew. He _knew_.

"Don't be, Jones. I'm a big girl - I can take of myself."

"Never said you couldn't," they each drank again, their drinks three quarters empty what with all the evasive sipping they were doing. He spoke once more before turning to Mary Margaret to engage her.

"Also never said you should have to."


End file.
